From an old website, Alien in Montreal
It's hot in McKibbins. I have to peel off my coat before I even get to the bar to prevent myself from swooning. I lean on the bar and pant, thinking, well, a glass of water would be fine. After a few moments the barmaid comes over and asks, in a broad Irish accent, what I'll have. I decide upon a Keith's and she brings it over in a minute.
Everyone that enters the pub comes to the bar and complains about the heat.
'My god, it's hot in here.'
The barmaid fields the following defence: 'You should have been in here earlier – it was freezing.'
After another few groups of people have come in, and complained about the heat, the barmaid relents and checks a thermometer under the bar.
'Well, it's only 25 degrees, that's not so hot. Ah, I'll turn it down a bit then.'
There is a sigh of relief all along the bar at this announcement.
There are two drunken Englishmen at the bar to my left. They are loud, obnoxious, and middle-aged. The barmaid, also middle-aged, handles them expertly, like a stern matriarch. She berates them, insults them, and even encourages them, keeping them in-line and in-control.
One of the drunken men won't leave her alone, however, but is always calling her name.
She eventually snaps and spins on her heel, 'For Christ's sake, what do you want now?' she shouts.
He falls into silence for a while.
Then he starts laughing, giggling to himself, and tries to share the thought with us, 'Ha ha ha, do you know, hoo hoo hoo, who is going to walk, ha ha ha, ah, walk through that door now? Har har har har!' He collapses into uncontrolled laughter.
We wait for the answer.
In a few moments he has recovered enough to spit out the words, 'Wee willie winkie!' And then lapses back into hysteria.
No one else laughs.
A few minutes later the drunk is silent and staring into his pint, sombrely. He has a thought and perks up, 'Do you know what my new mattress is called?' He says, to no-one in particular. He starts to giggle again.
'Not your bloody mattress again!' shouts the barmaid as she walks past.
He is cowed into silence. I'm curious however, what his mattress is called, and consider asking him, but am afraid to incur the wrath of the barmaid. As luck would have it, I don't have to though, because as he stares into his pint he says, very sadly, and very quietly, 'It's called a doctor hard mattress.'
He doesn't laugh.
Modern edit: Middle-aged? Ah, the attitude of youth.